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Ernest Hemingway
[Teacher Comment: A]
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Yesterday two friends and I paddled down the Des Plaines to River-side. As we paddled lazily down the smooth muddy stream I thot how different it all was from the last time I was in a canoe. The time I refer to was on the Little Brevourt [sic] river. That river contains a famous rapids that the guides and Indians say cannot be shot. An Ojibway friend of mine Joe Wabinosa said it could. We shot it. While we yesterday paddled evenly along fragments of that experience came to me. Again I saw Joe standing in the stern of the little bark canoe with his long steel shod pole poised. Again I heard the roar as we swept around the point and again I felt the funny feeling at the pit of the stomach that comes when a fellow [person] knows he’s in for it. I saw once more the long stretch of torn, white water with the jagged rocks sticking thru’ it.
I felt the rush of the canoe like a runaway horse, the fending off [with] off Black rocks with my [?][?][?][?], that awful moment when we jammed and I heard the ribs crack. I was again soaked with waves the canoe was half full of water and once more I heard as we beached the boat at the Portage trail Joes voice saying “Well Ernie By gar we done it.”